un•der•time, [úndər tím] (n.)
1. The under or after part of the day; Undern-tide; undermeal; the time after dinner, or in the evening.
2. unofficial work breaks: time spent by employees during working hours on non-work-related activities, such as shopping or personal appointments; employee's hours paid-for but not worked

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Thursday, November 8, 2012

The Guy on 23

So totally random, sort of embarrassing story.

A couple of weeks ago, I got on the elevator with two girls that basically look like models and a guy (all winter-tribe aka white people). I had begun to noticed that a lot of model-types worked here and got off on the 18th and 19th floor. It didn't take me long from there to note that the 18th and 19th floors were owned by Chanel. Mystery solved- although it's Chanel's corporate office. Why are they hiring girls that look like models just to work in the office? Anyhoo, that day when the girls, very predictably, got off on 18, I turned to the white guy who I hadn't really been paying attention to before and said "You can always tell the girls that work on 18." To which he laughed and made a joke about what you could tell about the dudes that worked on 23- his floor. His arm was in sling and he was wearing a cast. So I think he was suggesting that all the dudes on his floor by extension must be busted and broke down. The joke wasn't funny because he botched it, kinda of tripping over his words the way I would have if it had been me. But I laughed because the guy was kinda cute in a really average white guy kind of way and he was trying to be clever. Even in the flubbing of the joke, it was cute (he tried to say it twice and fucked it up both times, LOL).

Okay, so that is just background to my embarrassment- mortification really, (I'm building it up way too much, you're going to read it and think I had no reason to be embarrassed- so perhaps you needed to be there). Anyway, I'm walking behind this guy going into our building. The front doors on the building (there's two sets) are really heavy, and can be heavier if it's windy out- you know the way. I'm right behind him coming in through the first door, but the way he opened it, I thought he could see me behind him. So as we head for the second set, I see him pull the door open in that kind of way that people do when they're about to let the person behind them walk in first. Like the gentlemanly way. You know, you pull the door all the way right and kind of stand to the side. So I take the lead as a lady (saying thank you of course) and it's such a pleasant surprise because men nowadays are really low on chivalry I find. But I walk around him and start to walk in as he does the same thing. You see, he was NOT holding the door open for me. Which, of course, led me to wonder why did he pull the door open as if he was? I didn't ask though. I just dissolved into profuse apologies for being so presumptuous. He did, in the end, hold the door open for me as I was already half way through it anyway. I laughed nervously with my head literally in my hands. I was so incredibly mortified. I don't know why but it was surreal how embarrassed I was.

On the way to the elevator, he explained that his arm had been in a cast (!) and he lost some of his range of motion and strength in that arm so he can't open the door regularly. He has to haul it all the way open using his whole body strength and then slip in. Hence the appearance that he'd been pulling the door wide to let me in first. That was the point when I realized he was the cutie with the sling from a couple weeks before. (All winters are beginning to look alike to me, I guess). So I mentioned that I knew he had been in the cast and I apologized some more as we got on the elevator. We talked about the Hurricane and the fact that there's a line wrapped around the Apple Store and what that means for people's messed up priorities first thing in the morning until we reach my floor. That's it. Just wanted to share my mishaps. I'm so bad at interpersonal relations. Even the simple shit like walking in doors.

But I hope I see (and recognize) him next time I'm on the elevator.

On another topic, my coworker Beth* invited me to some random guy's 30th b-day party this weekend. Actually, the guy is a friend of her brother's so I guess not totally random. Anyhoo, if I go, I will most likely be the only speck of color at this thing (and the oldest speck to boot). If I was 30lbs lighter and some white-identified black girl named Shari or something, it would probably be a lot of fun. But you know I'm me, so I'm wondering if I should bother. I know I need to make some white friends. And this could be a start, but I just keep imagining myself alone at this white-ass bar holding up the wall.